Northern crow
by BloodRedVengeance
Summary: Fan fiction, all right to sons of anarchy belong to the owners of the series, More will follow.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

 **Open the cage**

Raindrops hits the the puddles outside the looming grey building, grey skies spilt by dim lights and the low rumble, like the gods of the old ones show their displeasure over this ancient land, cars go by, black and white, headlights dimmed by the downpour, blue lights blink.

Inside cold clinical light illuminates the stark white corridors, broken by intervals with solid blue steel door, people move about, some laugh, other in sullen silence, but always the atmosphere of malvolence is in the air, so thick that it feels like a man could reach out and touch it. A shout rings out down the corridor, like a bell over the din of the chatter, " _386 Petersen!_ ", a shuffle from one of the rooms follows soon after and the corridor's inhabitants look at the doorway, other coming to their own doors to look.

A man in his late thirties exits the cell, bag over his shoulder, not overly tall, about 5'8", tattoed, stocky, heavily muscled, sporting a well-kept van dyke beard, long black hair going to just below his shoulders, bound up in a ponytail, the eyes that meets every look being the only thing standing out in this collection of rough men, shockingly green, sometimes remote, other times flaring in rage like a animal, and as now, calm, uncertain. " _Get your whistle dipped and have a drink for us brother_ ", the speaker, a huge bald man covered in nordic tattoos steps out and locks his scarred hand with the hand of the man called Petersen, " _I will do better than that, I'll down a bottle and send you a bird to tend to that shriveled cock of yours, think that is about the right tribute for 'white Finn', I will send your regards to your club'_ ".

The large man laughs, his deep baritone rings out over the well wishes and laughter of the other men, all of which wear leather and patches when able to spread their wings in freedom. 16 different clubs represented in this prison, but the inside, and the years rubs out the differences, even in a country where bloody club wars raged for years.

" _We do not have all day Petersen, get your scruffy ass in gear_ ". The man called Petersen moves along the corridor, exchanging words and farewells with others until escorted out of the section by two large corrections officers.

" _Sven 'Zimmer' Petersen, Ten years served, here is your box of belongings and 'the envelope_ '". Sven looks at the brown cardboard box and sighs, taking the envelope with money, a few bills and some change, he tears the box open and takes out a sleeveless leather cut, and puts it on, a sense of relief comes over him, he enjoys the feel, and all the good, and terrible things that cut represents, his life, until bullets or a crash ends it. A hateful sneer spreads on his face as the corrections officer recites rules and regulations, and advices him on the laws on wearing his beloved patch, he strains not to threaten this tiny self important cunt, telling him that he will find him on the outside, and treat him to a workover with a alu-bat, and if he is unlucky a hard stick-fucking with the same bat...No lube! But instead Sven turns and walks out, cutting the stream of nonsense off midsentence, letting the officer see the defiant look of the reaper with the m16 in it's bony claws, Sons of Anarchy, Midgaard.

With a resounding boom the huge steel gates shut behind Sven, he lifts his face skyward and takes a deep breath, fuck the rain feels good on his face as it drenches him, he grits his teeth as the feeling of freedom rises in him, all those years inside this deep stinking hole, his father's funeral on escorted leave, disapproving looks from his family. All done for the reaper, he would have given more..Murder is nothing, and they could not even prove his full participation,.. Hells it was his damn idea, all of it, but he kept his mouth shut, and was the only one who went down. The reaper takes care of it's own, well.. Times like this shows you who is a bitch, and who is a true brother, reminded him that some business was overdue. Sven lifted his arms and let out a scream like the entire range of emotions, rage from a free spirit was being let out, ringing over the dismal landscape of the state prison.

The cry was answered by a dozen rough throats as Sven opened his eyes, barely in time to see the big biker charging him and wrapping his arms around him, lifting him with a great burst of laughter, " _Look what got released, some silly bitch, wonder if he can still pack a punch?_ ", Sven looked down to grin at his brother, big Abdel, the club's sergent-at-arms, the massive turk had been his friend for twenty years, followed each other through good times and bad, loyal, a true brother, and behind him, the entire chapter was parked on their motorcycles, all american bikes, accept no other. Hammering their horns and raising a godawful clamor, after a tight embrace Sven and Abdel walked down to greet the rest, and was subjected to all kinds of greeting from back clapping to questions about how much wanking he had been doing. Sven took it in his usual stride, grinning as he gave as good as he got. Looking around he noticed a few missing, the president and two others, one was in another prison, but the other...Well business. "' _Curly' is in the club house 'Zim', we got a welcome home bash planned, and church tomorrow, we need to talk about your transfer, and about what you are owed_ ", the talk grew quiet as Abdel spoke, and the the rain drummed on the precious black and silver bikes, Sven's smile faded, and he reached out to take the cigarette pack in Abdel's pocket, lighting one, zippo making the characteristic metallic sounds," _You know brothers, you owe me nothing, the club owes me nothing, this is who I am_ ". " _This is not how it works 'Zim', we take care of our own, and you did a dime for the club, and a lot more on the side, but enough about work_ ", stepping forward with those words a middle-aged, thin, moustached man made his presense felt, from his chest the VP strip was the first to catch the eye, a mark that had not been off for 25 years, the fured lines of his face marked him as a elder, but the eyes shone as vitally, ruthlessly as ever, 'Moroco' Karl, a true SoA constant, in this country as constant as the mark of the club, when he spoke, people listened. " _The prospects hauled your Panhead uphere, you ride back in style brother, now, let's be off before we get bitchy calls on the cell_ ".

Sven walked over to his baby, his hands glided over the chrome, the prospects had done good work. Original 1949 Panhead, first year hydraulic fork and so first year Hydra Glide. Original Harley frame, almost all original sheet metal, as the rest of the club fired up their engines Sven lovingly sat down, in the saddle again, leather creaking, put his helm on, and fished his leather bandana out of the saddlebags where he knew it would be, tying it behind his neck so it covered his mouth and nose, with the screaming, raging, metal skull depicted on the front.

He started up, hearing the roar from the powerful engine, the feeling of riding this beast yielding to his every command a savage grin spread beneath his bandana. The convoy of bikes started down the sleepy town street, the roar of the engines bringing many looks as reaper patch after reaper patch passed by and disappeared from their view in the rain.

Sven took his place, up near the front, he knew it would not be for long he would ride like this, so he enjoyed every second, gunning it as thoughts raced through his head, the look Abdel gave him just before they started told him that the big turk knew what would happen when they got back to the clubhouse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 **Welcome home.**

The haze of rain, the roar of the engines, the passing lights from cars, the illumination of stores and city lights heralded the return to the city. Sven hardened, grizzled hands gripping tightly on the 'reins'. He shook from his reverie, his green eyes squinted against the downpour. The thoughts of wrongs that had to be righted, old scores, and what had to be done, put aside for so many years registered in his mind once more, like a old book being removed from a shelf, dusted off, and read again in detail;

" _I have to remind everyone who I am, hell, hang-arounds who came in when I went away are now patched if they made the cut. This life, it is like being in a wolf pack, there is no room for just taking care of business, hanging with your brothers, if you are kind you will be seen as weak, and there is always someone right behind you, young, hungry, ready to take what is yours, all a grey wolf can do is to tear this youngling's throat out, by whatever means..Many things can be said about this chapter, but at the very least we don't wade around in hypocrisy, creating illusions about us being fathers, family men, good guys. We are not, in no chapter, no matter what people say, we are bloody criminals, murderers, bloody 1% outlaws. Claiming anything else is stupid, just look at what we do? People should stop being fucking pussies and admit to themselves what we, all the brothers are, it is liberating._ "

Despite the rain Sven's eyes widen a bit, flaring with savage mirth, a harsh laughter comes from beneath that black and silver bandana, all drowned out by the roar of the machine he named Betsy, named for the 50's pinup Betty Page, that piece of ass always held a special allure to him, and hell yeah was she a pleasure to ride.

Nearing the compound, driving up the the main road in the redlight district, Sven saw the familiar sight of dealers, and pimps scurrying out of sight at the approach of the outlaws. In the past many of these vermins ran afoul of the reaper, and have been dealt various forms of punishment, from fines to beatings, and if resisted, even worse. There would be no doubt who this district belonged to. The streetwalkers on the other hand watched one bike after the other pass them by, some with a wistful look on their painted faces, others with sheer greed, even a call or two to 'come party' was extended, though everyone knew, whores and outlaws, that there was more than enough croweaters to go around. Sven looked at one particular decrepid specimen as the trek of Sons held at a trafficlight. She was not that old, her posture and manner showed that clearly, but her face was that of a woman twenty years her senior, hands were veined, clearly seen as she sucked a greedy drag from her smoke, her clearly overdone eyeshadow highlighted as she looked up and met the blackhaired biker's gaze, his green eyes thoughtful, a light frown on his pale face. They watched each other, whore and outlaw, for the time it took for the trafficlight to change from yellow to green, then like by some unspoken agreement they broke eyecontact, he sped up and turned right with his brothers, she, wandered her lonely route on the lighted sidewalk. Sven had little doubt, one like she would burn out soon, crash under the weight of her self loathing, overdose, or illness would take her, and no one in this cold hard world cared, not him, not anyone, just the way it was.

Dying hard, or in a hospital bed somewhere, you are just as dead, if anyone cares or not, who actually gives a fuck?

Several whistles and shouts rang out in the ally as the roar of the machines made windows shake, rising crescendo as the reinforced gates opened, scarred by bulletholes and blunt damage, the graffiti on them flowing by as Sven and his brothers passed through.  
Oildrums flaring with fire dotted the compound in front of the main building and garage, music, heavy, deep and offensive, roaring from large speakers planted strategicly so the tunes covered the area like a blanket. It was like Sven remembered it, and it was fitting that the evening was cold and wet, transforming the buildings to grey, dark forboding structures. Someone shouted his nickname, and before long the brooding biker was surrounded by people, croweaters, old acquaintances, people who merely wanted to show their respect. Sven smiled, nodded to everyone, accepting many pats on the back, handshakes, and more than one 'kind' croweater offered to take good care of him this night.  
Getting off Betsy amongst all of this, he removed his bandana, throwing the wet leather on the 'saddle' of the bike, he made his apologies, promising he would return quick, there was one brother he had been waiting to see.

Passing Abdel, Sven looked at his old friend, his voice low and dark," _Do you still keep that ballpeen hammer in your saddlebags my brother?_ ". The Turk looked at his brother, his tanned face darkening," _Zim, I think you should handle this another way, considering why you do this_ ". Sven merely streched his hand out to Abdel and said," _I am who I am, and it is not for revenge you understand? It is for the balance of the account_ ". Without another word the huge Turk opened one of his bags and removed a old but well used hammer, waiting for just a second, meeting the eyes of Sven before placing it with a slap in his brothers hand," _Then go handle your business_ ".

The bar room was crowded with hang arounds and friends of the club, having a good time, delicious girls dancing on the tables in everything from short skirts to garters and stockings, and high leather boots, swaying their bodies to the thump of the music heard a little less acutely inhere, voluptuous bodies, large tits, reminding Sven in no uncertain way how long he had been in prison. " _Maybe this is why it is so crowded inhere, people can actually talk_ ", Sven thought, as he walked across the room a swift determinded pace, the hand gripping the hammer squeezing so hard his knuckles were white. Right in front of him, ten steps away his "brother" was sitting, his back to Sven. The six foot blonde man, with the buzzcut hair, a patched brother called Ric, he always was a man to depend on...Sure, in business, but one thing was what he said to your face.. A loud shout cut through the noise in the bar " _ZIM STOP_ ", the speaker, a heavy-set older man with a full beard and long hair, all of it steelgrey, rose from his seat at the opposite end of the room, reaching out a heavily tatooed arm.

However, Sven, or Zim, was not listening, he saw Ric in a haze of red, his pulse throbbing like a wardrum in his ears, and the room around him seem to slow down as he drew close, lifted the hammer. The seated biker started to rise, his eyes going wide, fear evident in that gaze, and knowing why... Striking without hesitation, Sven leaned into the blow, letting his savage rage fuel the strike. The hammer hit the back of the man's jaw, below the ear with a audible smack of impact and breaking the bone. Everyone else stopped and stared in a mix of curiousity and dread, as the Son they called Ric let out a strangled cry of pain, his jaw protruding more than it should to the front of his face, blood and fragments of teeth ran in a line from his mouth to the dirty floor, gurgling he tore the chair with him as he fell to the ground. Turning the hammer in his hand so the rounded head was ready to strike, Sven wore a expression of hate, his eyes wide open, staring at his victim, grinning like a ghoul before a meal, he let go of himself and rained blow after heavy blow down on his sworn brother, breaking bones, growling, snarling like a raging animal.

Strong arms restrained him after what seemed a eternity to Sven, and probably to Ric also, but the bloody moaning heap of flesh on the floor had nothing to say about it, nor would he anytime soon. Curly and Abdel held Sven in a tight hold, he began to relax, he suddenly felt tired, rational thinking settled in, his heart raced, the rage simmered down, sweat poured down his face, and it was not from the brief moment of frenzied action, he spoke in a barely restrained voice before any of his brothers could address the situation, " _I was told years ago what you did, and still do, the piece of shit belongs to you, you can thank the patch on your back that I don't kill you right now, although what you did might strip you of it, if so I will be back for you, and if I have to cross the atlantic,..I will. Fuck the prison clause, and fuck you!"._

" _You and me, the table, now!_ ", the old heavyset biker with the president tag did not turn to see if Sven followed as he strode toward the double doors to the table room. Sven handed the hammer to Abdel as the Turk also released him, the tool was covered in blood, so was Sven's face, but the greeneyed biker let it sit there, somehow, oddly, it calmed him to know he wore the sum total of his "account settling".


	3. Chapter 3

[Very sorry for the long wait, life happened and that often takes time away. Thank you very much for your reviews, I am happy that you like how it is going so far, and I promise I will do whatever I can to keep the chapters coming in a timely way :) ]

Chapter 3

Purgatory.

Sven could hear the commotion behind him as people rushed to help the stricken biker, calls for an ambulance, and swearing as they saw the extend of the injuries. But Sven felt nothing now, like a feeling of strange contentment had settled on him, the pain of betrayal had played itself out in prison when a friend of his old lady told him what went on while he did time for the club, truth be told, he would probably have settled for a "normal" beating if Abdel had not overheard Ric bragging about the fact that he was fucking Zim's old lady, sideways and all around, how wild she was, and in the home of the imprisoned biker. That was something that could only be washed away in blood and bitterness, So Sven had devoted a little bit of his considerable time to study some anatomy, coldly planning for the day he was free. The loudmouth betrayer's most serious injury was not the jutting bones of his face, but something internally, Sven was confident that he would never walk again, and more importantly never ride again, the spine is a vulnerable thing indeed when a attacker knows where to strike, hard and repeatedly.

" _Now he can sit in the prison of his own body and consider things, regret is a terrible thing, no walking, no riding, no fucking, and pissing in a bag for the rest of his life, oh yes, fitting. There is method to the madness, show everyone that my old reputation was well earned, and I have not changed... Or have I_?"

He felt strange, beside himself as he pushed the doubledoor open, the silver rings of his left hand clicking against the hard wood. Inside Curly the president was standing next to his seat at the end of the table, a large oak table scarred by countless "churches" and the artistic ability of the members, The walls around them were decorated by the posters, banners, and signs of the Sons of Anarchy, and the trophies of their chapter, behind the president's leather chair, not counting the fridge full of cold beer, and a giant reaper painting, was a picture of the founding nine, Sven had always been curious about those guys, Americans were a strange breed to him on a general, extremely steadfast on certain principles, but showing complete disregard for others, he was sure there was a meaning to it somewhere, in time maybe he would find out.

Curly pointed to the chair to his right, the old biker's arms were covered in tattoos, depicting everything from SoA markings, lavishly accurate ladies to nordic patterns and occult signs. The years had done little to steal the strength from those arms, heavy with muscle and rough hands that could do real damage. Sven walked over, moving to sit down when Curly swiftly grabbed his throat with his right hand, like a vice he held the younger outlaw, then his left came across hitting Sven with a meaty impact, hard and sudden. The punch broke the hard grip and sent Sven into the chair he was intending to sit in, sliding a full meter before coming to a standstill. Sven felt like he had been kicked by a mule, his own blood gushed from his nose and lip were the impact and the president's rings had ruptured his skin.

" _What the fuck were you thinking you fucking idiot!?_ " Curly's voice, harsh and gravelly, imprinted the seriousness of the situation on Sven more than any punch could have done, he started to speak, making no attempt to staunch the blood running from his face, but the older man, looming above him raised a finger, pointing at him, the president's dark eyes shining with anger as he spoke. " _When we spoke I respected your wishes about letting that bastard remain at the table, accorting to the rules of the club, that was right. But what you just did to a patched brother is violating those same fucking rules, one fucking hour out of the can, and you race in here, blood and fucking mayhem! I tell you this, I would be doing right if I had a vote about your patch, as I will have to do about Ric's, Now you spill your fucking guts about this thing, or I will forget the brains before bullets idea and stitch you through right here. I tried to ask Abdel about it but I might aswell be yelling at a wall for all the good it did me"_.

Dropping into his chair, Curly Stared at Sven as the bloodied outlaw fished out a pack of cigarettes from his cut pocket, leaving the pack on the table as he lit one, leaving bloody marks on the white paper, his voice was low, strangely calm. " _You know, I had thought it finished a long time ago, I just wanted what was due, but his disrespect, and the fact that the lies continued fucking fueled a great big fire, you know what I mean 'prez', Without respect we are not much when doing business are we? He was supposed to be my friend,...My son, Brian yeah? Well he is not mine, -that- is how it is. I hope you'll forgive Abdel for this, but this is not really something you want to be common knowledge"._

The older man settled back in his highbacked chair, putting his right hand on his forhead, slowly shaking his head. Sven continued, " _This is why, I thought this through, and know what can happen. It seems I have no damn luck with women, it was like this before her, and will be after also. Trust no one eh?_ ".

Things was not good, Sven was in a world of shit, not with any thought to what might happen to him, he had always been good at accepting life's hard realities, but his mind,.. No joy in anything, all shades of grey, no black and white, right or wrong. Maybe the change of scenery that was planned was really his only salvation, if he even needed one.  
Calmly smoking his cigarette and watching his president in silence as the old man pondered the situation, he thought it was all out of his hands anyways, speed up and go, highway to hell.


End file.
